


Thoughts

by epicallyducky



Category: youtube - Fandom
Genre: ??? i guess it's a happy ending, Happy Ending, Jack-Centric, M/M, Self-Harm, only slight septiplier, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-19 18:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4756160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicallyducky/pseuds/epicallyducky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows that this probably isn't the right thing to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song One Sweet Love by Sara Bareilles and the song Ease by Troye Sivan

He knows that this probably isn't the right thing to do.

 

_Probably._

 

"Get a grip, McLoughlin." He mumbles, his lips forming a thin line on his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. The bathroom's light is busted. The mirror is slightly dirty and he can see tiny specks of dust floating around him. He really wished he could turn into a speck of dust right now. Slowly wading through the air without a care in the world; the ability to maybe exist that way for all eternity. The thought sounded pretty wonderful to him.

He taps his hand on the side of the sink,  _clink_ goes the piece of metal in his hand.

 

He doesn't look down at it.

 

He takes a moment to think about the current situation. He pans out to take a sneak-peek behind the scenes. Setting: bathroom of his apartment; Cast: Sean McLoughlin, as himself; razor, as itself. It's a cloudy afternoon; a Wednesday. The bathroom is dim, due to the previously-stated busted light bulb. Last time he checked, it was September, and it was cold as fuck, so he wore a sweater. He's glad he was smart enough to think about wearing a sweater, and not just because of the weather. Too bad the sweater was white. It was one of his favorites.

He takes another moment; he takes another moment to register what he has been thinking for the past three hours. He can vaguely make out the words 'regret' _,_ and 'useless' _,_ 'infinitesimal', and other words he has chosen for his own self-degradation. It has been a rather adventurous process, searching for words to best describe what he was feeling. Although he felt like his vocabulary was just a tad too short to keep up with his loathing, he thought he did a pretty damn good job.

 

The sound of cars rushing past outside reaches his ears, and he wishes that it would be the only thing he’d have to hear. He doesn’t want to hear his heartbeat in his head; he doesn’t want to feel like a sack of rocks has been thrown on top of his chest. He just really does not want to feel in general.

 

His mind hums. _Feeling, huh?_

 

He taps the razor against the sink again.

 

He looks down this time.

 

The sunlight reflects off of the tiny surface of metal, shining on his eyes and on the different parts of the wall in front of him. One end of the razor has rust dusted in small portions. He should probably get out a new one if he’s actually serious about using it in a bit.

 

_Probably._

 

_If._

 

A laugh rolls off his tongue. He shakes his head slightly; shuts his eyes. He feels a lump in his chest press upward from his lungs to his throat and it’s like a wave of salty ocean water threatening to overflow. He suddenly feels a stinging in his wrist; in his arm. There’s a sting in his legs as well and the image of dark hair and soft fingertips appears in bright bursts in his mind.

 

He felt himself drowning.

  
His grip on the razor tightens, the sharp edges digging into the skin of his palm. He feels his blood start to slowly ooze out of his hand and tears break out from under his eyelids like criminals scrambling over prison walls. They run down his face and he tastes the salt as they reach his lips. His teeth clench and he shuts his eyes harder but more tears end up spilling out. He opens his eyes and it ironically stops the flow of his tears.

 

 _"It's always like this,"_ he thinks.

 

_"It's always been like this."_

 

“Shit,” His eyes land on his now-bloody hand. He brings it up to his face and notices that the rusted part hasn’t touched any of the cuts, however he still decides to clean them with soap. He doesn’t mind the sting.

 

The sound of the razor being thrown on top of the sink rattles throughout the bathroom and it echoes in his mind. He takes a good look at his hand; ponders if it’s enough. Decides if it’s enough to replace what he was planning to do to his arm. More importantly, he starts thinking up of a good excuse to why his hand was like this. What the fuck is he going to tell Mark?

 

_“I fell on some broken glass.”_

_“I almost got stabbed and mugged and I cut myself trying to get the knife away from me.”_

_“It’s one of those days again where I feel like you don’t really love me at all and I did something stupid.”_

 

He rolls his eyes. _“We have a winner,”_ he thinks sarcastically. He runs his uninjured hand through his hair and he lets out a sigh.

“I can’t believe I walked three miles for this.” He says to himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He wonders if Mark has woken up yet; wonders if Mark's noticed that he's gone. He wonders if the bed has grown cold enough to render the older boy awake. He remembers seeing Mark's glasses resting on the bedside table as he slowly sat up in the bed. He remembers reluctantly leaving the warmth of the thick comforter and his boyfriend's body. Sean blinks the memory away.

He glances down at the razor, its sides bloody. He wonders if the metal in both his blood and the razor were ever together once in a nice plethora of wrong-tasting whatever-they-are. He wonders if he should probably go back to Mark, although he knows that Mark will be up and panicking before he gets the chance to reach their apartment.

He lets out a breath and sees the fog appear in front of him. He feels anchored down by his Vans and constricted by his jeans. His sweater feels like a rain cloud about to cast a storm and strike him with lightning. His hand feels-

 

Well,

 

His hand feels like nothing, really.

 

The blood is half-dry, some of it that managed to flow out of the cuts are crusted over in his palm. He likes the way blood looks on his skin. He finds it fascinating in a way. The deep red contrasts nicely with his smooth, pale skin. If he ever told anybody about his weird-ass enthrallment with blood, they would probably seek help for him. Especially if he ever told Mark.

 

His mind hums at him again.

 

_Mark._

 

He should probably go back home.

 

_Probably._

 

He hears a rattle and his head whips to the side, eyeing the doorknob of his bathroom. His eyes flick over to his hand, and back at the door. Still holding his hand up, he walks over and reaches for the gold doorknob. He opens the door and a figure launches itself at him.

 

"Hi, Mark." His voice is muffled by the jacket pressed against his face. The arms that envelope around him feel like a quiet lake shaded by blooming trees in the springtime. When he reciprocates the hug -with his uninjured hand, he sees small drops of water fall into the lake. Raindrops. A large rain cloud forms over the lake. It's not as quiet anymore.

Mark leans back, his hands on Sean's shoulders. He takes one look at the still-held-up bloodied hand and before any words leave his mouth, Sean blurts out:

 

_“It’s one of those days again where I feel like you don’t really love me at all and I did something stupid.”_

 

He squeezes his eyes shut.

 

"Idiot." He whispers but he also hears another voice and realizes that Mark said it with him.


End file.
